Compulsively Mr. Darcy Read Free

efficient, she was.”
    Darcy snorted and made a rude gesture.
    â€œYou deserved what she said to you for being such an insulting, bloody arse to the poor woman. I heard a nurse say the doctor missed her dinner, again…” On and on Bingley jabbered until an evil glare from Darcy finally dampened him.
    Once in his own suite, one as far away from the Bingley family as possible, Darcy immediately undressed and took a hot shower. He threw his traveling suit in the trash bin and wrote a note to the hotel staff that, yes, he did mean to discard the expensive and tailor-made suit. It was now contaminated. Infiltrated by microscopic invaders.
    They’d skittered across him when he’d lain on that floor.
    At that thought, he took another shower. A long one. Then one more to make sure.
    Before he slipped into the king-sized bed, he checked the bedding. Satisfied at seeing his own sheets with his own monograms, he reminded himself to thank his housekeeper Mrs. Reynolds for arranging everything with the resort. He hated to sleep in linens others may have used.
    At last, his head sank onto the pillow and he let the peace of the room cover him. Alone. All quiet.
    As he drifted off to sleep, visions of a green-eyed monster devouring him jerked him awake. Again and again. Finally, giving up, he dragged himself out of bed and made a phone call.
    He gave precise, detailed instructions for a meal to be prepared and delivered, making them repeat his instructions back to him. Mrs. Reynolds must have relayed how particular her boss would be as a guest. The hotel staff accepted his peculiar instructions without any difficulty. Sometimes there were advantages to being an obsessive control freak, he decided.
    â€œNow, go away,” he muttered to the green-eyed monster floating around him as he settled back into his bed. The pounding in his head lulled him into a much-needed sleep.

CHAPTER 2
Batting for the Other Team
    â€œYou bloody arse!”
    Hands on her throat, Elizabeth Bennet bolted up and looked around to see who had woken her up. No one. Sheepishly, she put down her hands. As usual, after a sleep-deprived on-call night, she had been talking in her sleep.
    She lay back against her pillow. This was her favorite part of the day, waking up and letting the echo of life in Vietnam serenade her. She listened to the melodic music from a neighbor’s radio, the singsong voices of people talking in soft murmurs, and the rhythmic chopping of a cleaver against a wooden board. The sound of lunch being prepared in the kitchen of the orphanage next door reminded her it was time to get up.
    Fragrances from freshly cut fruit greeted her in the tiny dining area of the cottage she shared with her sister Jane. Elizabeth made her coffee, grabbed a medical journal from a stack, and sat down to her meal.
    Two paragraphs deep in an article about post-miscarriage infections after dilation and curettage procedures, she paused, distracted by the unbidden image of a man’s handsome face appearing on the page. Frowning, she swatted at the paper and refocused on medicine. A few paragraphs later, hearing the sound of his voice reading aloud “staphylococcus,” she gave up and put the journal away.
    Why did she keep hearing his voice? It must be that English accent—so clear, so clipped, and so concise. Every syllable enunciated, in that public school–educated British male voice with its typical, unhurried delivery, even when giving a blistering setdown. Probably from watching too many period pieces on the BBC channel, she’d always had a weakness for snotty, male, British accents.
    The phone rang. Her sister called from the orphanage’s office next door. “Did you catch up on your sleep after your call night?”
    â€œYes, I feel rested.” Elizabeth took a small bite of a jackfruit and made a face at its oversweet aroma. Jane liked the fruit, but Elizabeth thought it too sticky. “Yesterday was the